


The Dragon and the Wolf

by SaltAndSmoke



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF, Dragons, Dreams, F/M, Game of Thrones References, Harrenhal, Heterosexual Character, House Baratheon, House Martell, House Stark, House Targaryen, Incest, Inspired by Game of Thrones, Jousting, Love, Pre-A Game of Thrones, Pre-Series, Prophetic Dreams, Robert's Rebellion, Tourney at Harrenhal, Visions, White Walkers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2018-07-22 00:02:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7410433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaltAndSmoke/pseuds/SaltAndSmoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Many say the first meeting between The Last Dragon and the She-Wolf had been fateful; that thousands had found death because of this one day in spring. The Dragon would claim his bride, and Westeros would pay the dowry in blood...But that day at Harrenhal, no one knew of all that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Songs and Tears

**Author's Note:**

> This is just some story idea that I have had for a while now, but until now never had the motivation to write down. It is pre-series but still pretty much canon as for the succession of events. Please forgive me for any mistakes you may find as english is not my native language.

The first time he saw her, she was surrounded by her brothers, on horseback, in beautiful garments, grey silk slashed with red, the colors of her eyes and the ruby necklace around her neck. She looked fair and lady-like, with her brushed, straight brown hair flowing over her shoulders and framing her long face. Yet he could see the strength underneath the silk, her lean, muscular body moving as one with the motions of her horse as the Warden of the North and his family rode through the gates of Harrenhal, clad not in furs and mail, but, adjusted to the warmth spring had graced the Riverlands with, in lighter cloth.  
When Brandon Stark halted his horse in the middle of the yard to greet Walter Whent, the Lord of Harrenhal,  Rhaegar Targaryens eyes did not so much as graze him. Instead, his gaze was banned by the young woman mounted on a spirited grey palfrey between her brothers Brandon and Eddard and young Benjen. All four had the same ice grey eyes, and like ice, they were cool, stern, unyielding.

 _Northern eyes,_ Rhaegar thought, _Oh, the songs I could write about them._

Already several melodies floated through his head, rhymes and verses that just waited to be sung and played.  _Some of them I would only sing to her though-_

“My Lord!”

A voice interrupted his thoughts. A young voice. Confused and irritated, Rhaegar blinked and turned to face the boy who had called him. It was one of his squires, Myles Mooton, who had squeezed through the crowds to find his prince now stood before him, panting and red-faced.  
“His Grace King Aerys is asking for you. You are not to make him wait, he wants to talk to you, ser.”

“I’ll come. Thank you, Myles. We’ll meet again at the feast, I suppose.”  
“Ser.”  
Rhaegar nodded and allowed himself a short smile before looking up to try and catch another look at the lovely Stark daughter, but she and her family had already gone inside the castle, it seemed. He frowned, turned away from the scene and hurried towards the royal chambers with long strides. He wondered what his father would be burdening him with this time.

 

The first time she saw him was at the evening feast. The Great Hall of Harrenhal might have been the greatest hall in all of Westeros, still now it was full to bursting with people. Lords and ladies on the dais, Hedge knights below the salt, petty lords, landed knights and lesser lordlings in between, all drinking and eating and laughing at the countless jugglers, fools and mummers. It felt as though half of Westeros had been wedged into the hall and even though only one of the forty fireplaces had been lit, it was so hot sweat was pooling under Lyannas arms, soaking her beautiful, uncomfortable, impractical and itchy dress. To her right and left, her ladies giggled and flushed and sipped at Arbor Gold, across the table Brandon was eyeing some serving girl and even gloomy Eddard smiled and japed.  
_It is the wine,_ she decided _. The wine is making him smile.  
_ Her big brother seldom smiled and laughs were even more scarcer, but wine always made him lighter.

 _Probably I should try some myself. Might that would make this whole thing more bearable. Might be it would make_ me _more bearable._

Lyanna knew she was not good company for her ladies tonight but she was bored out of her mind and wanted nothing more than to flee the crammed hall, the noise and the sticky heat. The thick air was making her dizzy. She wished herself onto horseback, breathing the fresh air outside and tasting Spring in it. Instead she was condemned to sit and applaud and smile and nod her little head, just like a proper lady. She was toying with the thought of slipping away when no one was paying attention, when suddenly the hall fell quiet.

 _What is happening?_ She wanted to whisper to the girl next to her when she saw him.  
The crown prince was sitting on a chair in the middle of the hall for everyone to see, a gilded harp before him. He was clad in a silken tunic dyed a dark indigo and breeches darker still. His fair hair caught the light of the candles and torches and shone like beaten gold and silver, tumbling over his shoulders in wavy cascades. His eyes were sparkling pools of black but Lyanna knew that in better light, they would be the color of his tunic _. The color of setting dawn,_ she mused.

The last whispers died away when Rhaegar Targaryen plucked the first strings of his harp, the sound so loud and clear and sweet even the last loquacious knight fell silent.  
The melody was none Lyanna knew or recognized. It was a slow up and down, beautiful but sad, with only a trace of mirth in it. And when the prince opened his mouth to sing, Lyanna stopped breathing. She did not understand the words for he sung in High Valyrian, the mother tongue of the Dragonlords of former times, but still she knew what the song was about. The melody went deeper than the words, telling of loss and grief and ancient, unspoken and forbidden love. Rhaegars voice was clear and full and warm and yet he even hit the highest pitches. His long fingers danced across the strings, the golden ring on his left index finger glinting and gleaming in the torchlight. His eyes were closed, she saw, his face full of changing emotions, feeling with the melody, his whole body quivering as the song was nearing its end. He almost seemed an otherworldly being to her then, lean and fair and as beautiful a man as she had ever seen.  
The song ended on a deep, rich, quivering note, so sad and filled with grief that Lyanna _knew_ the lovers had died and the sea had swallowed all that would have remembered them. She felt as if she was breaking in two.  
Then it was over, and as the prince opened his eyes again it seemed to her as if he was looking at _her_. Something warm stirred in her chest, soft and fluttery.

 The moment was gone as fast as it had come. Rhaegar got up and bowed as the hall erupted in applause and cheers.

 _He was not looking at me_. _He was merely looking in my direction, that is all._  

She felt something on her cheek and when she swiped over her face with a thumb her hand came away wet _. Tears,_ she realized, half in astonishment and half in dread _, I have been crying.  
_ Hastily _,_ she wiped her eyes and nose and tried to hide her face for a moment until it was calm and smiling again so no one would see Lady Lyanna the wolf-maid cry. She felt how she flushed from embarrassment and hoped no one would notice in the dim light.

_It was just a stupid song. Why would I cry because of some stupid song?_

Someone did notice though. "Are you crying, M'lady?" her brother Benjen teased, "Did this splendid prince's beautiful song touch your tender maiden's heart?“ He smirked at her, his eyes glittering with mischief. Lyanna never said a word. All she did was grab her cup of Arbor red, a fine vintage, and in a fluent motion, upended it over her brothers head. While Benjen still sat there, sputtering and gaping, trying to get the wine out of his eyes, she shoved her chair back and rose from the table. as she whirled away to squeeze through the crowds and towards the exit, she could hear lady Genna start tittering with her neighbor: "Wasn’t that the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard? Rhaegar is such a _handsome_ prince, don’t you think? And his _voice_! By the Seven, he really is perfect!” the silvery laugh she let follow made Lyanna want to throttle her.

_He is just some good-looking royal, he can play the harp and one day he will be king, what is so great about that, you hen?_

She did not bother to turn back and tell her so, though. As she made for the exit, squeezing through the feasting crowds, she glanced over to the dais to see Rhaegar sitting next to his Dornish wife and his father.

 _He_ was _looking at me._


	2. Lance and Sword

The first morning of the tourney had been to his satisfaction. By midday, Rhaegar had unhorsed five great lords in the champion’s tilt, and not a single time one of them had even come close to unhorsing him. Although jousting was not as much of his liking as reading or playing his harp, it did keep him from having to sit next to his father to watch the spectacle. But the afternoon was reserved for other knights to joust, so Rhaegar had to claim his seat on the tribune.

His father was sulking in his throne of gilded wood, adorned by three dragons’ heads. Despite the warm day, he was wearing thick clothes, samite and velvet. The mere look of his long sleeves and dark robes made Rhaegar feel uncomfortable. He took his seat next to his father, greeted his mother and leaned back in the cushions. This would be a long afternoon.

“All this fighting and clashing just annoys me!”  
Announced Aerys, the second of his name, about ten minutes after Rhaegar had joined him.  
“It is all just riding and poking each other with long sticks, one is like the last.”  
His father’s long fingernails thumped on the wood of his arm rest _._

 _clack clack    clack clack clack_     _clack_

 The nails hit the wood in irregular intervals, nagging on Rhaegar’s nerves. Still he smiled and shrugged.  
“You are the king, father, you do not need to watch it, if it annoys you.”  
Aerys gave an angry snort.  
“Exactly because of that I have to sit here. Because I am the king. People would think ill of me if I didn’t attend this folly. You should be old enough to understand that.”

_You never wanted to attend anyway. Why did you still come, father? Because of some lies good Varys whispered in your ear._

Rhaegar ignored the not-so-hidden offence in the kings words and nodded instead.

“You are right. You did well to come here so the smallfolk could see you.”

“Praise from my son for the king’s decisions. What a wonderful day this is.” Aerys swept away a fly that had flown too close to his face. Rhaegar adjusted his seat and turned to the lists again, trying to stay out of the slight breeze that carried the king’s scent over to him. His father had not bathed for the occasion, he knew.

For a while, none of them said anything, though from time to time, Rhaegar could hear Aerys mumble something unintelligible into his long beard. He never bothered to ask. Most like, he was telling stories to himself.

Instead, the prince was looking for someone else. His eyes searched the dais, trying to find the Stark girl. Brandon Stark he could see, sitting next to his two brothers, but his sister was nowhere to be seen.  
He remembered the feast. He had not seen anyone during the song, for his eyes had been closed, yet he had felt her presence at the other end of the room. Hundreds of eyes had been fixed on him but hers had been the ones he’d felt upon his skin. When he had ended the ballad and opened his eyes again, he’d seen her face, floating in the dim light of the hall, silvery glistening tears upon her cheeks. She had been weeping. Women always wept when he played, but still the sight of her tears had been astonishing to him. For some reason, he had not thought the magic of his music could work on her.

He had not seen her since, though. She had left the hall and had not been apparent at the lists so far but he knew she had to be somewhere here. Sooner or later, he would see her again.

***

Lyanna had been watching the Melee all morning. The brutal force with which the knights fought each other, the screaming and whinnying of the horses, the grunts of the fighting men and the cheering of the crowds had attracted her. She stood among the smallfolk, concealing her noble birth with rough spun fabrics and an undyed cloth she wore over her hair, cheering her favourites on. She had not wanted to face her family today, especially not Brandon, for he had taken her wine attack on Benjen ill, and was full of scorn against her to hear Ned tell. Her oldest brother had taken on the role of their father for the duration of this journey, since their sire had preferred to stay at Winterfell, and Brandon took his task quite seriously, at least when it concerned his younger siblings. 

 

However, Lyanna loved tourneys. She loved the splendid colors and the beautiful armors and the song of swords in the air. Not a day went by that she wished she could take part in one herself.

So far, Robert Baratheon had proven to be the best participator of the melee. Whoever faced the Stag lost, and had to crawl back to his tent bruised and battered, or carried away on a bier with several bones broken. Her betrothed really was a fearsome opponent.

The lord of Storms End wore his best armor, heavy steel enameled in gold and green, a stag’s gigantic antlers adorning his helm. No one could best him in strength or brutality, he was a nightmare with a blunted axe and warhammer. Lyanna adored him. Lyanna admired him. But she could not love him for all his beauty and valor. He was a good man, she knew, all rumbling laughs and deep blue eyes, but she was aware that for all the promises of undying love he had already made her, he would not be keeping them. He had fathered his first child on a young Florent girl when he had still been a squire, spoiling the marriage bed of his own brother Stannis, whose wedding he had been attending. Only the gods knew how many more children had followed that first little bastard.

 _Edric,_ she remembered. _Edric Storm is his name._

Robert talked a lot about the boy. He seemed to be rather fond of him. Lyanna could not imagine being married to him, yet she would be, and soon.

A horn blast made every head turn around. Two more followed. They came from the lists.  
The crowds slowly turned away from the melee and streamed towards the jousting ground, where a lot of people had already gathered. Lyanna, tall as she was, had no trouble looking over the heads of most spectators when she stood on her toe tips. Using her elbows, she slowly worked her way through the masses until she had a good view on what was happening on the field in front of the dais where the lords and ladies sat. A knight of the kingsguard, clad in white from head to heel, stood before the king, a lean youth kneeling in front of him. Lyanna narrowed her eyes and recognized the knight as Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, Lord Commander of the kingsguard.  
She could not make out the words that were spoken over the general sound of people whispering and muttering, but as the young kneeling man rose and Ser Gerold put a white cloak around his shoulders, she knew that the Kingsguard had just welcomed a new brother.  
The boy was young, about her age, with long hair that shone like spun gold in the afternoon sun. Even from the distance, she could see how handsome he was, tall and muscular and fair, with a confident smile upon his face. She could not remember to have ever seen him before, yet she knew who he was. The Hand’s son, Jaime Lannister of Casterly Rock.

When the Golden Lion joined his new brothers after bowing deeply before the king, he seemed to stand twice as tall as before, with the white cloak streaming from his shoulders, his whole body radiating confidence.

As the crowds began to scatter again to go in all directions, Lyanna decided to return to her tent and see after her horses rather than continue watching the melee. This tourney would be going on for long enough, and she felt like taking a ride around Harrenhal would be a nice variety for once. After all, this was the hugest castle in all of Westeros. She ought to have a look at it.   


	3. Dreams and Prophecies

The castle really was gigantic. Lyanna had ridden along the curtain wall for half an hour now, yet she had not circled Harrenhal completely even once. The people she met were all busy, tending to horses or armor, preparing food, washing clothes. The ruined castle was alive with sound. Lyanna laid her head back and looked up to the closest tower, Kingspyre Tower. Though centuries had passed since Balerion, Vhagar and Meraxes had descended upon Harren’s halls, spitting fire and claiming blood,  the stones were as blackened as they had been the moment after the dragonflames had melted them. What was left of Harrenhal was eerie, haunted. A vast black beast cowering by the shore of the God’s Lake, threatening to swallow anyone who came too close.  
Nonetheless, Kingspyre Tower seemed to be of a chilling beauty to Lyanna. Looming tall above her, half eaten by wind and weather, half consumed and molten down by dragonfire, the place where Black Harren and all his sons had died screaming was of a solemn silence. Passing it, Lyanna wondered what it had looked like before Aegon Targaryen and his dragons. Another thing to be added to the ever growing heap of questions she had that she would never know the answer to.

As she rode past the armory, she heard noise coming from the backyard. She halted her horse and listened attentively. Laughter and young voices, three gleeful and cruel, one meek and begging. She heard groans as well, and the hard _thump_ of boots meeting ribs. Someone was obviously being beaten up, and the three attackers sounded young. Whoever the victim was, he needed help. Without thinking, Lyanna vaulted down from her palfrey’s back and stormed towards the noise, ripping a tourney sword from its scabbard as she passed the counter, where several of them lay orderly arranged to be taken up for training. She stopped before peering around the corner to see what was going on.  
Three boys stood in a circle, sneering at something that was laying on the ground between them. None of them could have been older than fourteen, but they were all equally ugly and unwashed.  
One of them was kicking the man on the ground – it was a man, Lyanna could see as one of the boys moved a bit to the side - with a boot. Again. And Again. Their victim let out a cry as the tip of the boot took him in the gut. 

“P..please st..op-“

“What did the frog say?” one of the boys, the tallest one, with a large mole on his cheek asked, his voice full of false innocence “I couldn’t quite get it.”

The man on the ground seemed to cringe at the boy’s words but still he made another attempt to speak.

“I…let m-me go. P..lease, Sers, I…ne’er did you a-any h..harm”

“Did you hear that?”, the other boy let out an excited squeal “ _Sers!_ He thinks us to be knights!” the giggle he let out was both hysterical and irritating

“Filthy stupid crannogman, takes squires for knights. You should have stayed in your bogs.”

The three of them howled with laughter. They sounded like a pack of ill-tempered hyenas. When the boy with the pug nose and an enormous tooth gap lifted his leg to kick the poor man once more, Lyanna knew she had to act.  
She stormed towards them, tourney sword in hand, screaming. Her first blow hit the mole-boy across the back, sending him to the ground with a cry of pain. She whirled around immediately to wag the pug-nose boy on his cheek with the broad side of the blade before striking him down with a hit in the guts. As she turned to face the third boy, a small excuse of a squire with watery eyes, unkempt brown hair and prominent ears, he raised his hands and dropped to his knees, stammering begs and shaking.  
Lyanna pushed her hair out of her reddened face and looked at the boys on the ground.

“This is my father’s bannerman you are assaulting! Did you know that?” She growled angrily. The boys looked up at her with uncomprehending eyes. “Apparently you did not. Doing harm to someone’s bannermen is a crime and can be punished with death, but I assume you did not know that either.”  

The boys looked at her in disbelief, with furrowed brows and narrowed eyes, but Lyanna could see the first glints of uncertainty as well. The mole-boy spoke up.

“ ‘cuse me, m’lady, but who’s your sire?” he had wanted to make the question sound mocking, but sitting on his buttocks in a puddle of mud, it failed its intention.  Lyanna looked down on him, contempt in her eyes, before moving over to the beaten-up man still lying on the ground to help him up.  When she had pulled the crannogman to his feet and brushed off the worst of the dirt on his surcoat, she turned around to the three boys who were now on their feet again as well, to answer the question. Supporting the squire’s victim, she straightened herself, brushed her hair back and said:

“My father is Lord Rickard Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North. I am his daughter, Lyanna Stark. This man is one of my father’s bannermen, like his ancestors before him were for hundreds of years. I would think my father will not like to hear what you did to him.”

Now there was no trace of uncertainty or defiance left on the boys faces any more. They looked down right horrified, pale and afraid, Lyanna was pleased to see. None of them said a word, they were frozen on the spot, staring at her with round eyes and gaping mouths. Eventually, the boy with zit-covered cheeks regained his voice.

“M’lady”, he stuttered “We..we didn’t know…please forgive us we – we…t’was just some silly game we ne’er meant him no harm you have to see…we didn’t know m’lady-“

Lyanna cut him off with a flick of her tourney sword. “Away with you. You and your silly games have caused enough trouble for a day”

“But-“

 _“Away!_ ”

The three boys suddenly remembered how to use their legs and made good use of the regained ability. They turned on their heels and scurried off, and a moment later, they were gone.

The man she’d saved let out a grunt as he loosened his grip around her supportive arm and straightened himself. Only now she saw how small he was. Barely her height, of slender built, his arms and legs nothing but skin and bone and sinew. Two eyes the color of moss looked her straight in the face from under a mop of tangled, brown hair. Genuine, those eyes were, and calm, though one was swollen and slowly taking on an angry shade of purple.  
“I owe you my life, my lady”, the crannogman said “it was very brave of you to…rescue me from these brutes. I…I would get down to one knee but I fear I might not get up again.” He grimaced. “A nice sword you have there. My name is Lord Howland Reed, if it please you.”

 _A Lord._ From the look of him, one would have never guessed Howland to have anything lordly in him. He was very young, even though he tried to appear older by grooming a wispy beard. Six-and-ten, or probably one year more at most.

“I am pleased to meet you, Lord Reed. But may I ask, why did those three attack you?”

Howland made a face. “They have heard the stories about us crannogmen, frog-eaters, bog-inhabitants, poison-makers. They found an easy target in me. I did not provoke them, if that is what the lady thinks. I just happened to be in their way.”, he shrugged , “If not for you, they might have beaten me bloody. Broken a bone or two…”

Lyanna shook her head in disbelief. _How could anyone be so cruel?_

“Why weren’t you at the feast yesterday?” She asked instead. “I did not see you”.

The young lord looked at his toes, frowning slightly.  
“I…I do not feel suited for those feasts, my lady. They are for great lords and ladies and kings even, but not for the likes of me. I may style myself Lord, yet I am but a crannogman….besides, I do not own clothes befit such occasions.”

Lyanna felt rage growing in her belly.  
“That is not true! You are every inch as important as any of the other attendants! You should come to this night’s feast, you will enjoy it, I am sure. And as to your clothes…I am sure one of my brother has garments that will suit you well.”

“But, My Lady…this is not necessary, this –“ “I _insist_ on it. I promise you, you will be treated as the lord you are, and should anyone try to do otherwise, I still have this.” She raised her blunted sword and smirked playfully. “You will see. It will be marvelous.”

Howland did not look convinced at all, yet he nodded slowly. “What about those three squires, though? Will you tell your father?”

Lyanna looked at him, his bruised face, his dirty clothes, and considered. Then, slowly, a smile crept over her face, a mischievous smile, eager and confident.

“They will get what they deserve, Lord Reed. I promise you, I will see to it.”

 

***

 

The boy who stood before the throne in his white armor had trouble containing his wrath. His jaws were clenched, his face was red, his eyes narrow. Rhaegar prayed he would not do something stupid. That might be his end. But Jaime Lannister managed to swallow his anger, though the effort was obvious. He inclined his head, bowed stiffly and when he spoke, there was only the slightest of quivers in his voice. The boy seemed to have more control over himself than the prince had thought.

“As you wish, your Grace.” The new member of the Kingsguard mumbled. “I will ride at first light.”

Aerys seemed pleased. He nodded and dismissed the boy with a flick of his hand, so careless and causal as if he was was shooing away some peasant. Rhaegar could almost see the waves of rage welling up inside of Lannister. For a moment it looked as if he wanted to say something but Rhaegar caught his look and shot him a warning glare. The boy turned on his heel and walked from the solar, his snow white cloak trailing behind him. When the door shut with a loud bang, Aerys chuckled.

“Have you seen his red head? Such an angry lad, that one.”

Rhaegar cleared his throat.

“Father. Was it wise to send Ser Jaime away? So shortly after making him a member of the Kingsguard? He might get behind the real reason for his announcement.”

His father grunted.

“Ser Jaime swore a holy oath to protect the royal family until his last breath, he has no choice but to obey me, whatever I want him to do. So if I want him to fulfill his duty and ride back to King’s Landing to protect my wife and son, _your own mother and brother_ , from the hired knifes of our enemies he will do just that. No matter if it fits him or not.”

Rhaegar frowned.

“I know you see danger for our family luring at every corner, father, but any knight of the Kingsguard is fit for the task you gave to Jaime Lannister. Sending the boy away only enrages him and his father, too.”

_Which is your intention, I have no doubt._

“Because there _is_ danger for our family luring at every corner, Rhaegar! Do not talk to me as if I was some frightened old hag!”, Aerys scolded him, his indigo eyes darkening in anger. “I _know_ they are there, waiting in the shadows for us to turn our backs on them so they can stab us between the shoulders. They are everywhere and I want to know my family protected!” he had raised his voice with every word he spoke, until the solar rang with it, loud and high and mad. Rhaegar hid his contempt behind a mask of calmness. He had learned long ago not to flinch from his father’s wrath. Showing fear meant showing weakness in Aerys Targaryen’s eyes.  
The king had not finished yet, though.

“I do not care about Tywin Lannister.”, he declared, calmer now, “his firstborn son is under my command now, and he won’t inherit Casterly Rock. Tywin’s wretched dwarf child is his heir, oh, how the old lion is raging. I can hear his roars from the Rock he’s hiding under, even here.”

He leaned back in his chair with a satisfied smile, falling quiet for a second as if he was actually listening to Tywin Lannister’s screams.

 “In truth, I do not want this son of his here. He likes me not, whatever he has sworn. Words are wind and this one is false, with his smiles and cheers and golden hair, I can feel it. I do not want him here where he can plot treason concealed by festivities. Let him guard the Queen and Viserys, your brother is closer to his age than the rest of my kingsguard, after all.”

Rhaegar lowered his eyes to the ground and bit back any comments that might have enraged his father again. Instead he said:

“Whatever you think is best, father. You are the king.”

_And let’s see for how much longer._

***

That night, he dreamed of dragons. He often had vivid dreams and just as often he saw dragons in them, and fire, and things that happened long ago or would happen in a hundred years’ time or never. He had read about that in a book once, when he had still been a boy. Some of the blood of Old Valyria used to have such half-real dreams that would reveal them the past or future, so the prophecies those gifted ones made would certainly come true one day. Many of his own line had told about such dreams they had experienced themselves so Rhaegar knew that he was not the first one to have had meaningful dreams. As a boy, they used to frighten him, but now he found himself drawing strength from them, looking forward to falling asleep so he could once again be endorsed by the visions sleep granted him. Sometimes they seemed more real to him than the world he found whenever he woke, more intense and more true.  

This night it was different though.

_He dreamt he sat on a dragon’s back, flying through cold thin air, so high up that he could touch the clouds. The dragon beneath him was a fearsome beast, all teeth and claws and muscles, fire made flesh between his thighs. Its scales shone like polished emeralds, the crests running from its neck to the tip of its tail a rich bronze. The leathery skin of its wings was bronze, too. For a while, they were gliding through the air, swiftly, the heat of the reptile’s body seeping through Rhaegar’s breeches, its muscles working underneath his palms. Then, the dragon dove through the thick blanket of clouds and he could see the land underneath._

_It was a battlefield. From high above, all the prince saw was slaughter, the screams of dying men and beasts carried up to him by a cold breeze. It was snowing, too, and deep below he saw spots where the snow had formed heaps forty feet high and even higher. In other places, it was completely gone, molten away by vast fires, but the snow kept falling and even as Rhaegar was watching, the black burnt earth vanished under layer after layer of fresh white snow. Men were scattered everywhere, dead and alive and dying. Heaps of corpses became heaps of snow while soldiers scrambled over them. Rhaegar could not make out any banners but it seemed to him as though some of the men were moving unnaturally, clumsy and slow, almost as if they had yet to learn how to use their bodies._

_Suddenly, a shadow fell on him, and as he raised his head he saw another dragon, larger than his own and as black as a starless night._

Balerion the Black Dread, _Was his first thought, but this dragon was smaller, and besides, Rhaegar had never heared of Aegon the Conqueror fighting a battle in snow and ice._

_The black dragon let out a mighty roar, and as it flew past the prince, he could see a woman sitting on its back, clinging to the scarlet crest at the base of its neck. Her hair was a mane of  silver, trailing behind her like a shooting star’s tail, her face was calm and beautiful, large violet c eyes framed by long lashes looking out into the world, observing the battle on the ground. She wore rough leather and linen, garbs fit for riding, but utterly out of place in a snow storm. Yet she did not shiver._

The cold cannot touch the Blood of the Dragon, _he remembered._

  _A shriek echoed from the skies and through the storm, he could see a third dragon, golden wings beating at the air to force its way towards its siblings. This one was white as freshly fallen snow and on its back…he could see a figure, but the dragon and its rider were too far away to make out details. He saw dark hair though, blowing in the storm. And that was when he knew._

_The black dragon folded its wings and fell from the sky, a good hundred feet, before opening them again, letting them fill with wind like the sails of some great war galley, and regaining balance. Then, it craned its long neck towards the ground, opened its mouth and spit scarlet flames._

It is burning corpses, _he realized, as the fire enfulged a mountain of dead men, the snow melting away with a sound like thousand hissing snakes, the burning bodies filling the air with the stench of charred flesh._ Why is it burning corpses?

_Snow flakes swirled around him, floated before his eyes so he could not see what was happening any more. The vision started to fade, white turned to black, and before he knew, the storm, the battlefield, the dragons and their riders had molten away like the snow upon the dead bodies._

Rhaegar Targaryen opened his eyes and was confronted with the darkness of his bedchamber. The smell of burnt men still lingered in his nose and his body felt hotter where it had touched the dragon. Next to him, his wife was stirring, mumbling his name.

He wrapped his arms around her slim, fragile body and pulled her closer, inhaling her scent. Elia Martell let out a small, sleep-drunken moan and nestled her head against his chest. He brought his lips to her shoulder and planted a kiss there.

“I have seen our children, Elia.” He whispered. Saying it out loud made it come true, reassured him.

Elia gave a silent sigh. “Where?”, she asked.

“I dreamt of them. Rhaenys and Aegon and Visenya, they were all there. They rode dragons, Elia. Our children.”

His wife chuckled. “All three? We only have one girl, Beloved. And this.” She took his hand and rested it atop her swollen belly. “And if the gods are good they will grant you an Aegon.”

He kissed the crown of her head. “I know they will. And a Visenya afterwards.”

He could feel Elia’s eyes go dark with worry, even if he could not see it.

“That would be wonderful, to be sure.”, she whispered. She left the rest unsaid.

_I might not be able to give you your Visenya._

Rhaegar was well aware of that. Rhaenys birth had been a torture and afterwards, his wife had been bound to her bed for half a year. She was sickly even now, carrying his second child, and he dreaded the day his son would be born. Should Elia not survive…he pushed the thought away from him, concentrating on his dream instead.

“I saw them”, he insisted. “They were beautiful and strong. They were leading the country to a better future.”

_And my son…I saw it through my son’s eyes. My Promised Prince._

Elia turned in his arms until her face was close to his in the dark. He could feel her breath upon his skin.

“It was a dream, Rhaegar. Whatever you saw, it was a dream. No man knows what the future brings, and no dreams can show it. I know you think differently of it, but all we can do for the moment is wait. We know nothing. Go back to sleep, my prince.”

She kissed him lightly on the lips and retreated, rolling over to her side of the bed, and only a moment later her deep, calm breathing told him she had fallen asleep again.

 _She does not understand,_ he thought. _And how so? I can never hope to make her understand my dreams. She has never seen what I’ve seen._

He lay awake for a long time, staring into the darkness.

_I saw my children. All three. It was real. The dragon needs three heads._

But Elia could not grasp the importance of that. She never would.  
Sleep did not come easy to him that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As some have pointed out, the order in which the events happen in this story diverts from the actual "historical" plot. I am sad to say that I did not do my research as well as I should have, and now ended up making some mistakes here and there. For example, Howland Reed is attacked before the great feast that marks the beginning of the tourney. I want to apologize for these inaccuracies, but I can't change them any more as that would be a lot of work so....AU, I guess? Sorry, guys. I hope you still enjoy it.


	4. Plans and Thoughts

 

It had not taken Lyanna long to convince her brothers to help Howland. All three had been aghast when she brought lord Howland before them, right after seeing to his worst bruises and bleedings in her own tent. In fact, the lord of Greywater Watch made for a sorry appearance:  his eye was now swollen shut and black, his clothes dirty and he hobbled slightly. When she had told her siblings how she had saved him from his attackers, Brandon had cursed and asked if she knew whose squires the three boys were. Lyanna did not.

“So all you did was giving them a good beating with a blunted sword?”, her brother sneered, “That’s my sister!” He gave her a pat on the shoulder before he fell serious again. “This is a grave matter, Lya. We cannot let them get away with assaulting one of our men, lest we want to be seen as weak. I am aware that at the moment, no one apart from us and those squires knows of the incident, but this place is like a beehive, with ears and eyes everywhere…” he looked around, frowning.

 _My cheerful big brother is truly worried,_ Lyanna realized with a start.

“What shall we do?” asked Ned, ever so calm. “Track the lads down and hang them? We can hardly do that.”

Brandon shook his head. “No. Hang them, I would not. If Lya is believed, they are all still underage, half children. We cannot sentence children to death. I would –“ “- Find out who the knights are they serve and tell them to give their insolent brats the beating their parents apparently never gave them.”, Lyanna finished her brother’s sentence. Brandon granted her a proud grin in return.

“That is what I was about to say, in fact. I hope you two can remember those villains’ faces?” He looked at Howland and Lyanna expectantly.

Lyanna thought about the big black mole, the pug nose, the watery eyes.

“Yes.”

“Yes, I would not forget them even if I were to live for a hundred years, my Lord.”

Brandon seemed pleased. “Good, then you won’t have any trouble recognizing them at today’s feast, I hope.”

Lyanna shot Howland a triumphant look, which he only answered by turning his green eyes skywards. When he saw Brandon Stark’s raised eyebrow, though, he quickly lowered them to the ground instead, bowing deeply.

“I shall attend the feast. As you command.”

Brandon knitted his brow in confusion but decided not to mention that the feast was open to anyone who was knighted or highborn, the latter of which Howland was.

Before the young lord could bring up the problem he had with the feast himself, Lyanna spared him the embarrassment and asked the question for him:

“Brothers, Howland has told me that he lacks of garments appropriate for feasting in royal company but I hoped you could help him in that matter. I know that your clothes would hardly fit him, Brandon,”, she gave her oldest brother, who stood at least a foot taller than Howland a measuring look, “but Benjen might have something that could suit him…” she shot her little brother a hopeful glace. He was almost of a height with the crannogman, and just as slender. The boy’s face lit up in a broad grin and he nodded.

“Sure! Old Nan packed me enough clothes for two of me, there will surely be some things you’ll like! Come over to my tent if you have time.”

Howland obviously did not know how to handle so much kindness from a highborn boy hardly more than half his own age. He gave an insecure, twitching smile and bowed.

“I will come at once, if the young lord wishes.”

Benjen just laughed his light, boyish laugh and shook his head. “Whenever you have time, my Lord.”

Ned cleared his throat. “Lord Howland, where are you staying? Is your tent far from here?”

The embarrassed expression returned to Howland Reed’s face and It took him a moment to answer.

“Yes…My Lord, my tent…I made my camp a little farther from here, I did not think it appropriate to raise a thing of such rough, simple fabric here among all the others..,it is not very large, my lord, and unpleasant to the eye. It does not belong somewhere the king could be forced to see it every day.”

“Where is the rest of your family? Who attends you?”

Howland cleared his throat and looked to the ground.

“No one, my Lord, I came alone. My family remains at Greywater Watch but I followed the invitation to represent house Reed at this tourney.”

“Alone?”

Brandon asked incredulous.

“Aye. I arrived two days ago and found most of the tourney guests already arrived. I made my camp at the rim of some small wood and celebrate with the hedge knights whose camps are closest to mine. I do not know anyone here, and if truth be told...”, he made a face, ”this is the first time I leave the Neck.”

Brandon looked abashed, but Ned smiled one of his rare smiles. 

“Welcome to Harrenhal then, Lord Reed of Greywater Watch.” He extended his hand and after short hesitation, Howland took it and smiled back at Lyanna’s brother. Ned had not finished, though.

“I would like to offer you a place close to our tents, where you can make camp and claim a place that fits your title better. If you want to, you are welcomed to share my tent with me, should your own lack of comfort.”

“We like to keep our bannermen close to us.” Brandon added swiftly, before Howland could turn down the offer. “I do not like to see one of them having to camp in the company of rouges and hedge knights. Come and join us, Lord Reed, and tonight we shall feast at the same table.”

Howland looked as if he had swallowed his tongue.

 

 ***

 

The feast was as boring as it was flamboyant. Even though it was not as lavish or huge as the inauguration feast had been, it still was a few great deals larger than any feast Rhaegar had ever held at Dragonstone. Silently he cursed Lord Whent for being so foolish. To the realm it must seem as if he had not spared a single coin from his dungeons to throw this feast, and many must already be wondering where all this sudden wealth was coming from. After all, Walter Whent had never counted to the richest lords of Westeros. 

 _You should not call him foolish,_ a small voice chided him, _he is not half as great a fool as you._

He lightly shook his head. _Let the people believe whatever they like. Lord Whent might as well have gone to the iIon Bank to borrow some money. No one knows the truth of his sudden wealth. No one, but me, and him._

 

He sat between his father and his wife Elia, the curse and the love in his life. Elia was chatting happily with Ashara Dayne who, as Rhaegar found, was not too interested in talking to the Dornish princess. Instead, from time to time he saw her purple eyes flick towards the part of the dais where the Starks sat.

It were moments like these when Rhaegar felt the absence of his mother the most. If she had not stayed in Kings' Landing but had accompanied her husband to Harrenhal, she would now be sitting to the king's other side, serene, motionless, quiet. Rhaella Targaryen was beautiful, even though the years were already showing in the lines around her eyes and mouth. Rhaegar had her long, silvery-gold hair but not her eyes. While hers were lilac and pale, his were a rich indigo, his father’s eyes. She always wore long-sleeved gowns, even in the greatest heat of summer, but Rhaegar knew that however hot and uncomfortable she felt within those dresses, it was a small price to pay for not letting the world see her bruised skin. Her body was covered with them, fresh and old ones, blue and purple and green and yellow, pattering her skin in ugly blotches. Rhaegar was aware that Rhaella tried to hide the marks of violence even from her own children, yet he had seen them no matter how careful she had been. Countless times after he had first discovered the gruesome truth about his parent’s marriage, he had thought about a way to help Rhaella. But there was none. No one could help her, not even - or least of all – the Kingsguard. How do you protect the royal family when the attacker comes from within it?

All of a sudden, the prince felt he had no appetite. He sat his knife down, determined to ignore the capon on his plate, fried crisp and gold brown with mushrooms and onions, for the rest of the evening. Instead, he followed Ashara’s example and started gazing over to the Stark’s table.

Lyanna looked beautiful this evening. She was wearing a silken dress dyed a deep blue that showed off her long neck and made her skin look even fairer. Her dark hair caught the light of the torch behind her and made her head look like it was surrounded by an aura of flickering gold. He had to force himself not to stare at her all the time. Somewhere in the back of his mind a thought awoke, slowly slithering, rustling its wings to take flight.  
He had been thinking of the dream he had had the night before; if truth be told, that had been the only thing he had been thinking about today.  He had held his wife’s unhealthily cool, unhealthily skinny hand and stole sideway glances at her unhealthily thin body supporting an – in comparison – abominably large belly, whenever he knew she was not looking, thinking about the three riders on the three dragons.  
He was worried.  
 Elia was a wonderful, intelligent, witty woman whom he had learned to admire and value, but she had never been what anyone with eyes would have called “healthy”. He remembered all the nights he had sat next to her nursery bed after she had given birth to Rhaenys, holding her ice cold hand and watching her shiver and shake with post-natal fever. The first time she had left that bed, near half a year after their little daughter had been born, she had collapsed into his arms after a few steps.    
He did not want to imagine what Aegon’s birth was going to do to her.

_She is not going to die. She cannot. She must not._

But no matter how many times he repeated the words in his mind, he did not have the power to make them come true.  
The thought stirred again and its leathery wings beat air. Rhaegars eyes flicked back towards the Wolf-maid.

_Her? Could it be her?_

The idea itself was absolute madness, only to think of it was dangerous.

 _The kingdom would collapse_ …Could _collapse. After all that I am trying to of for it…my work…_

He shook his head as if to shoo away a fly. Only the fly was in his head, and it could speak.

_The dragon needs three heads. The Song of Ice and Fire will be His. He who was promised. You need to make it happen. It can only be you._

He studied her body, the way her shoulders were pulled up, her back straight, her chin lifted, as if she felt thoroughly uncomfortable in the revealing dress. Her eyes, dark in the dim light, were large and wide open, and from time to time she was turning her head in one direction or the other as if she was looking for something.

_How can I be sure that it is her? That she is the one to give me Vysenia?_

_You cannot._

The prince rubbed his temples and wanted to return on paying attention to the nobles at his own table, when something caught his eye. Or better, someone.

The boy sat at the Stark table, right next to Eddard Stark. He seemed no older than six-and-ten and Rhaegar could not make out any sigils on his garbs. What had drawn the prince’s attention to him was not the missing house-of-arms, however, but the enormous black eye the lad’s face displayed. Whoever this boy was, or what had happened to him, he must be of very high birth to sit at the dias among one of the most powerful houses of the Seven Kingdoms.

And Rhaegar did not know him.

_It’s the eye. You just do not recognize him. You would know the lad, if not by face, by name._

He had no time to brood further on the stranger, though, as in this moment the Lord of Riverrun called his name, laughing and raising a glass of wine in his direction. Rhaegar felt obliged to greet back and make the short way towards Hoster Tully, touching his wife’s shoulder lightly as he went past her. Her skin was cool even though the hall was boiling hot.

 


	5. Treason and Mystery

The second morning of the joust was grey. The tourney grounds lay beneath a leaden sky, heavy clouds hanging low, promising rain.  
Rhaegar sat on the tribunes once again, and once again, his father was sitting next to him on his gilded wooden throne, wrapped in wool and satin and velvet against the chill the last retreating fingers of winter were sending against the tourney guests. His face was gaunt, his limbs skinny, his flesh unhealthily pale. Rhaegar found himself wondering when Aerys had bathed the last time.  The King had grown stranger and wearier since he had been held captive at Duskendale years ago. He had retreated more and more into his private chambers, handing the rule over his Kingdom to his small council, only leaving his apartments to attend burnings.  He had grown fond of these events, and he might have been one of the very few people attending them at all.

Rhaegar felt as uneasy in his father’s presence as any man, but unlike any man, he could not just leave the old kings side. The place of honor to Aerys’ right was his, and he had to stay there pretending to enjoy the strawmen fights fought out in front of his eyes.  His gaze wandered across the tribunes on the other side of the jousting grounds, over the faces of lords and ladies, his familys’ bannermen, allies and subjects. On his own Tribune, in closest proximity to the king and the seats of honor were his fathers most trusted friends, or at least those pretending to be. If only those who felt genuine amity towards his father and the crown were seated here, Rhaegar imagined this tribune to  be much more spacious than it was at the moment, with every seat taken and the ranks towards the ground so crammed it seemed some ladies could scarcely breathe. Yes, friends his father had plenty, still. But Rhaegar knew as good as any of those loyal highborn friends that their loyalty and friendship began to dwindle and vanish at the same pace at which his fathers’ insanity became more and more noticeable every day. They would melt away like snow on the first warm day of Spring. Which was why Rhaegar needed to act before Spring was truly upon them all.

As he turned his head to the left his eyes met Lord Walter Whents’ for a moment, before the host of the tourney seemingly redirected his attention to the jousting, though a keen observer could have noticed the weariness on his face, his  tension hardly concealed by a thin layer of listlessness as he watched Ser Roward Frey unhorse yet another foe, a young Redwyne knight, thus securing his place among the champions. His lance knocked the boy off his horse and into the dirt while shrapnel-like wooden splinters and the poor fools’ screams filled the air. Lord Whent did not even flinch while his wife and daughter – the tourneys’ Queen of Love and Beauty – shrieked in Terror and Mirth. He was not with them on the ranks of his own tourney, but buried somewhere deep in his own thoughts, and Rhaegar believed to know what was keeping his mind off the festivities.

_He is thinking about last night._

The Prince had called them all to a meeting down in the candlelit bowels of Harrenhal, where the sun never shone. One by one ten of the most important and influential Lords – and Ladies – of Westeros had descended into the belly of the beast, down its dark throat, obeying the call of their Crown Prince, a message that had reached them in secrecy, separately and on most uncommon ways.

Finally, when the last highborn had found his way into the large chamber under the castle, Rhaegar had greeted his newly formed small council and explained his reasons for this gathering. 

“My Lords, and Ladies.”, he had begun, “surely you all must be wondering why I have called you here to this strange place at this ungodly hour.”

A collective approving murmur rose around the table.

“I beg you all forgiveness for arranging this meeting in such rushed manners and without any further explanation,” he continued, “but you will soon see for yourselves why secrecy is of utmost importance for our gathering.”  Some of the Lords shuffled uneasily on their chairs. Rhaegar knew that they had already understood the meaning of his words; if the Crown Prince felt the need for secrecy, it could only mean one thing: The King did not know and could not know of their doing. Whatever Rhaegar was about to suggest, it would be an act of treason.

“As you all know, my father is not as stable of mind and health as he used to be…” an ominous whisper followed his words. The Kings’ declining sanity was not a topic to be discussed, neither openly nor privately, lest one wanted to lose their tongue. Yet King Aerys’ own son had said it out loud, and by addressing them all and assuming their knowledge of this badly kept secret, he had made them accomplices. Even so, none of those loyal allies rose his voice to take issue with Rhaegar, and so he carried on.  
“…his current state is worrisome, there is no doubt, and after this tourney even the smallfolk will have its own ideas about the kings’ condition. There will be gossip. There will be worry and fear and restlessness, whispers of treachery and resistance until some bold, unruly fools start to cry for a rebellion.  Like this, it has happened before and like this it will happen again, my Lords. The sign of weakness is every rulers’ downfall. Therefore, we need to act fast, before the common people and – mind you – the crowns’ enemies have time to spin their intrigues. We must secure the reign of the Dragonkings and thus ensure the peace in all the Seven Kingdoms. We cannot let a war break out on account of my fathers’ sickness.”

Silence followed his words, made even heavier by the darkness creeping just beyond the edges of the candlelit table, and the unconscious weight of the whole castle above their heads. Finally, Lady Olenna Tyrell cleared her throat and spoke, in the half mocking, half chiding way of hers.

“So this must be why half of Westeros is sitting in this giant castle,” she remarked “so that you have the right stage to work out your plans behind the curtains, while everyone is charmed by the mummers and fools hopping around in the front. Why, Prince Rhaegar, you have always struck me as the smarter dragon.” Olenna turned to Lord Whent, “Did he fund…all this?” She waved her hand vaguely above her head, “I knew you could not be wealthy enough to arrange such a flamboyant mummers farce by yourself, you do lack the coin.” Walter Whent squirmed on his chair like a boy who had been caught stealing food from the kitchen, frowned at her angrily and turned a darker shade of red. He said nothing.

Despite all, Rhaegar had to smile a little. He had always been strangely fond of the older woman, with her wits and her sharp tongue. There were reasons he had called her down here, rather than her firstborn son, Mace.

“You are right, My Lady, I did indeed help in the planning of this tourney so that I had an official reason to bring us all together. And it has worked quite well as you can see.” He paused, watching his potential allies’ reaction to his confession. Most seemed very calm, as if they had already suspected a darker motive for this enormous feast rather than just Lord Whent’s daugter’s nameday. He could read uneasiness and light irritation in the eyes of some of the others, but none of the Lords tried to get up from their chairs and leave. Rhaegar already felt triumph rise within him, yet he forced it down again and kept his stern, unmoving expression.

“I have called you here to ask your help, and I know what I am asking of you is going against the oath you swore to my father. But I can assure you this: it is for the good of the realm. This kingdom is about to break apart and I am the only one who may prevent it from plunging into chaos, but I cannot do this alone. This land has suffered gravely under my fathers’ rule and I can promise you that, once I am on the throne, the Seven Kingdoms will flourish and bloom again, as they have under my grandfather, and his fathers before him. I need your help and support, my friends, to defy my father, depose him and lead the realm to salvation.” He looked around and saw serious, pale faces. They all looked at him with hard, resolute eyes; he knew that they saw the truth of his words. When he spoke again, his voice had grown softer and calmer, yet the urgent tone still lingered underneath.

“I am aware that all of you have served my father loyally and for many years, but you have sworn fealty to my house, and your banners are mine as they are my fathers’.  If you give me your support and help me win the Iron Throne, as is my birthright, I will be ever grateful for your service, and I may never forget the aid you provided me with during these perilous times. It will take my whole life to pay back my debt to you.”

Long silence followed his words. Finally, Lady Tyrell spoke up.

“So what you are suggesting is that we choose our sides between you and your father, either helping you to overthrow the Kings’ reign and rule in his stead, or keeping the oaths we have sworn to King Aerys and defy you. The way I see it, you are of a mind to fraction the loyalty at court and sow enmity among your families’ bannermen…if I remember correctly, this same thing has already happened before and songs are still being sung about the Dance of Dragons. I also remember that it did not end well for either side…“

“It ended with bloodshed.” Said young Lord Tarly, his eyes sparkling with excitement. To Rhaegars knowledge, the man would not hesitate to come to his side, Lord Randyll was fond of strong leaders and looked on displayed weakness with contempt. The prince knew he could count on him.

“Aye, my Lady Tyrell, you speak true. The Dance was started by two fractions of my house, and at its end, House Targaryen stood weaker than ever before. But peace was restored, too, and for a long time after, the realm prospered. But I want no bloodshed, nor fighting nor quarrels. There will not be a second Dance, not if we know to avert it. No, I had a much quieter plot in mind; everyone who lays eyes on my father must see the madness consuming him, and in turn, must know that his days of ruling are long done. At court, even the most loyal know in their hearts that such a man is dangerous, poison for the realm. Mind you, many must already be wishing for a change in power, and if we give it to them, there will be little resistance for they all know that it is for the better. And once the crown is bestowed to me, they will bend their knees easily, and relieved.”

“Are you proposing to kill your own father, your Grace!?”, Lord Blackwood growled, incredulously, staring at Rhaegar wide-eyed.

“I have not proposed anything so vile, my good Lord, nor would I ever.”, the prince assured him, “All I want to do is to lay the Kings’ madness open for everyone to see, and publicly deem him unfit for ruling. It won’t take much more than that, just a bit of persuasion and, perhaps, two or three temporary imprisonments, should some of his close friends deny seeing the truth. I do not want to use violence on any of my subjects, and if we act swiftly and silently, a war can be avoided.”

He saw the approval in their eyes. Some still looked wary and uncertain, but he saw that he had voiced their thoughts and persuaded them with his reasoning.  
When Olenna Tyrell slowly nodded, he knew he had won them over.

“I will not pressure you to an immediate decision, my Lords – and Lady, and I am aware that such a decision is most difficult to make, so I will give all of you some time to ponder over my words,” he announced. “I will send out a message to you when the time for pondering is done and I will hear how you have decided. And if you have decided for me, I will gladly welcome you in my newly formed Small Council.” He saw some faint smiles appear on pale faces, flickering like the candles along the walls.  
“Before we take our leaves, I must remind you to keep quiet about everything that has come to pass tonight. Should any of this slip to my father, his paranoid mind might tell him to set the whole keep afire, like as not. It is very important to not let anyone outside this room know about the words spoken here, not even your closest friends nor family. If anything goes wrong, all our heads will end up on spikes.”

 _Or roasting and crackling over a merry fire, with the rest of our bodies._ A wicked voice inside him whispered.

Everyone in the room nodded gravely. They would keep silent, he knew.

They took their leave, one after the other, ascending back up the stairs, up into the light and the life and the fresh air, each one of them hanging after their own thoughts. Rhaegar watched them go, a little wary, but not much. They were His now, he was certain of it. As would the throne soon be.  
The last one to go was Lady Olenna. She smiled wanly as she turned around to him, the candles creating a thousand dancing shadows on her old face, making every line look like a bottomless canyon.

“You have dragged us all into your little game of treason today.” She said, her voice softer than before, “I hope for our own sake that you know what you are dealing with.” 

Rhaegar lowered his head and when he looked up again, she was gone with the rest, and he stood alone in an empty room again, the shadows on the walls dancing their endless dance in the dying light of the candles.

  
*** 

 

As the fallen Redwyne knight was being carried off on a bier, clutching his leg and moaning, the blast of a fanfare cut through the cheers of the crowds. A herald stepped forward to announce the next match.

“SER DESMOND HAIGH IS CHALLENGED TO A JOUST BY A MYSTERY KNIGHT”     

A roar rose up from the place where the smallfolk was standing; a mystery knight meant an exciting turn in the game, and as his identity was unknown, many loved to think that behind that behind the visor he could be one of them, a simple man rather than a highborn knight. It was clear which side the commoners would be on during this match.

As the opponents appeared on the jousting grounds, King Aerys II leaned forward on his gilded wooden throne, his thin hands clutching the armrests with such force that his knuckles turned white and the bones stood out like spikes under the yellowish, parchment-like skin. He squeezed his eyes almost shut to see what was going on on the opposite side of the field. All day he had paid no attention to the action on the ground below, but now he was awake and filled with suspicion.

Ser Desmond Haigh was clad in splendid steel, excellent craftmanship from head to heel, his breastplate shining in the golden afternoon sun that had only come out now, at days end; a pitchfork on yellow ground, the sigil of his house, was emblazoned on it in radiant colors. His woolen cloak was the color of rust and billowed behind him as he rode, along the length of the jousting ground to let the smallfolk cheer him on. The cheers went up but faded soon – House Haigh was not well known, and neither was Ser Desmond. 

When the Mystery Knight appeared, he did not have to ride up and down the lists to collect his cheers. At the mere sight of him, the people let loose an excited roar and applauded him – the sound was deafening. The unknown challenger could not have been more different from Ser Desmond: He was much smaller than his opponent, and smaller still than the average man, his armor was mismatched and dented, spotting signs of rust here and there; some pieces seemed to be ill-fitting, made for much larger men than him. His cloak was torn in many places, and mended with patchwork in twice as many, its original colors – if ever there had been any – were impossible to tell. His helm bore no crests and his visor was so rusty it seemed near impossible to open. Yet his mount was a grey stallion, young and strong, a fierce and fiery beast to look at, and when a squire brought him his lance, he held it with an elegance and effortlessness one could only acquire through years of training.  On his shield, the image of a weirwood tree with a laughing face was painted in bright, fresh colors, white as bone and red as blood.

The knights took their places on the opposite sides of the lists and waited for their signal. When the fanfare was blown, they charged at each other, holding their lances low. The crash of wood on wood sent up some shocked screams from the crowds, but when the horses galloped to the end of the grounds, both knights were still up in their saddles, the ruins of their lances still in their hands. At the second turn, the mystery knight changed the angle of his thrust ever so slightly just before the impact, and as the opponents thundered past each other, Ser Desmonds lance hit the laughing tree and broke, but the point of his foes’ lance struck him in the shoulder and threw him out of his saddle and into the dirt. The smallfolk’s cheers were so loud that it made the wooden structures of the tribunes shake and tremble.

Up on his high chair, Aerys frowned deeply and growled, his brittle yellow nails digging into the beautifully carved wood of his throne. The unknown knight made him uneasy, more so as he had already won his first match so easily. He could smell the stink of treason on that queer small man.

Down on the ground the herald announced that the mystery knight challenged two more opponents to a match, and the crowd screamed excitedly. Some started to shout a name, and many more picked it up, until the whole castle seemed to chant the words. “ _Knight of the Laughing Tree_!” they sang, clapping their hands, urging him on; “ _Knight of the Laughing Tree!_ ”  
And Aerys’ mood grew darker.

The Knight of the Laughing Tree defeated two more champions in few rounds. Ser Roward Frey was unhorsed at the very first try when the mystery knight’s lance found an unprotected spot and hit him at his hip; Ser Gerys Blount kept his seat longer and even made the crowds gasp when his blow pushed the other knight off balance, but the Knight of the Laughing Tree pulled himself up again and shook his painted shield in the general direction of the smallfolk to show them that he was unharmed and undefeated. When Ser Gerys finally lost his seating in the fourth round and crashed to the ground in a cloud of sand and limbs and splinters, the crowd went mad. They screamed and chanted and laughed, and when the herald proclaimed the mystery knight as the winner, they shouted his name and stomped their feet; some even threw flowers.  
They only grew quiet after a long time, when the Knight of the Laughing Tree had stopped bowing and his squire had led his horse off the lists. With one last wave, the mystery knight bid his farewell to his audience and vanished forever.

As the strange small knight strode off the field to the applause of a thousand men, King Aerys seized his eldest son’s arm, fingernails digging through cloth and into flesh, and stared at him with wild, bloodshot eyes.

“Have you seen this treacherous rat?!” the king hissed, spittle spraying from his lips as he talked.

Rhaegar nodded slowly and said in a calm, low voice: “You mean the curious patchwork knight who defeated those three champions? Well, I have seen him, my Lord, as has half the realm.” His tone was light and listless, even though he kept that solemn, stern expression he always seemed to have on his face. The boy had never been very bright.  
  
“He was sent by my enemies, I am sure of it!” Aerys growled and clutched the crown in his lap tightly. The damn thing was too heavy to wear it on his head all day, it gave him wicked headaches.  
  
“Have you seen his shield?”  
  
“A laughing weirwood tree, what of it?”  
  
“It was laughing at _me_.” The King screeched, “That ugly tree was mocking me! Did you not hear it laugh?” He made a dry giggling sound in turn. “It was smiling and laughing up at me, the ugly thing, smiling that ghastly red smile! It told me it wanted to see me dead!”  
   
His son looked at him calmly, not flinching away nor withdrawing his arm, but in those dark indigo eyes that looked so much like his own, yet nothing alike, he could see that Rhaegar was repelled by him. Once, that might have hurt Aerys, but not anymore.  He was way beyond hurting.  
  
“Father,” Rhaegar said calmly,  “All I could see was a painted smiling tree, much like those heart trees they keep in the north. It smiled at no one in particular, nor did it threaten anyone. It was a painting.”  
  
“So you are calling me MAD?! Me, the king?” Aerys shouted, his voice high-pitched and thick with anger.  
  
“I DID see it, it smiled at me and mocked me! Its mouth was full of blood! I _saw_ it!” His son slowly nodded and pressed his lips together.  
  
“I am not calling you mad, father. If you say you have seen the tree mock you, then it has. But I do not understand why this stranger would want to harm us. Why him of all people?”  
  
He really was dim, this spawn of his. Aerys cursed his wife for giving him an heir as nimble-minded as this one. He needed to make him _see._  
  
“He hides his face behind a mask, like a craven. He does not want to be recognized so he can get away easily after he has killed me, he –.“ For a moment, the king fell quiet, his eyes trailing off into the distance. Then, a thought crossed his mind, a realization so strong and terrible it made his voice quiver and his blood run cold. “The Lions’ pup” he whispered hoarsely, “The wretched golden boy, Jaime Lannister! It is him, it can only be _him_.”  
  
Aerys trembled now, and his grip on his son’s arm had grown even tighter in his wrath. He felt something warm and wet upon his cheeks and knew that he had started crying again. Why was everyone so blind, he wondered, that only he could see the obvious.

“He must have come back, returned to defy me! He has disobeyed my orders and now my wife and son are unprotected! They could be killed by our enemies at any moment! I cannot allow this!”  
  
Rhaegar said nothing, only looked at him with those soft, sad eyes of his. Somehow that made Aerys even angrier.  
  
When he spoke again, his voice was shrill with madness.

“When he appears again tomorrow, make sure you or Ser Barristan or Ser Gerold or…ANY of you – ALL of you – are matched against him! I want you to defeat this traitor, unmask him and expose him for all the world to see! I want to see his face! I want to see him writhe in the dust at my feet! I COMMAND YOU!”

“As you wish, father”

Prince Rhaegar got up, bowed and left without another word. The King stayed on his wooden throne and blinked away the last angry tears. Then, he turned around to tell Lord and Lady Whent of the terrible mocking tree and Jaime Lannisters’ treason. He would not talk about another thing for the rest of the day.

 

***

 

 Later that day, as the sun was setting over the molten towers of Harrenhal, the three defeated champions came in search of the Knight of the Laughing Tree, accompanied by their faithful squires. They had lost their horses, armor and swords to the mystery knight and sought to ransom back their belongings.  
When they found him, the Knight of the Laughing Tree was sitting in the grass before a campfire, honing his rusty sword on a whetstone. He had neither taken off his ill-fitting armor, nor had he lifted his visor. His face was still hidden from the world; the mighty oak-and-iron shield leaned at a post next to him, the bone-white weirwood tree smiling broadly at every passing man.  
The knight only looked up when the three once-champions came to a halt right in front of him, but Desmond Haigh had the unpleasant feeling that he had seen them approaching a long way off.  
The odd man did not greet nor address them, and as the silence grew so long it felt ludicrous to all of them, Ser Ramond Frey finally spoke up:

“Greetings, my good Ser!” he said, smiling thinly, “We have come to ransom back what we lost to you at the joust. You fought formidably and won rightfully, but we have brought gold with us to give to you in exchange for our lost belongings, as is the custom.”  
He tried to catch a glimpse of the face behind the visor, but saw only darkness. It made him uncomfortable that he could not see this man’s eyes, could not guess his intentions. Anyone could be behind that rust-spotted visor, friend or foe. The sooner this transaction was over, the better.

The Knight of the Laughing Tree suddenly put away his sword and got to his feet in one swift, effortless motion that seemed almost impossible to perform in his heavy, too-large armor. As he stood before the three knights, they could see how small he really was, slender and short, at least one and half a foot shorter than they were. Yet he had defeated them, and something about him told them that he could do it again, and easily so.  
When he spoke, his voice boomed inside his helm, loud and deep like the bells of the Great Sept of Baelor.

“You are honoring me, Ser Ramond. All of you have been worthy opponents today and I enjoyed the joust. However, I am afraid I cannot take your gold.” Now there was a shine in the darkness of his face, a mischievous glitter where his eyes were. 

“I beg your pardon?” Ser Gerys snapped indignantly, his face turning red. He was a man of short temper, and besides, his armor had been new and his horse all but borrowed from his fathers’ stable.

“So, you will not agree to a ransom and mean to keep our belongings for yourself?” Ser Desmond demanded to know, aghast.

“Well,” the faceless knight replied, “in truth, they _were_ yours but now mine; they are the price I won for my victory. But –“his voice grew louder as to make himself heard over the angry protest of the upset men “you misunderstand me, Sers. I cannot take your gold because it was not for gold I challenged you, nor glory, nor your horses or armor. I fought you to restore the honor of Lord Howland Reed, a crannogman I hold dearly. He has experienced great injustice at the hands of your squires, when they assaulted, harmed, and shamed him, mere two days ago, and left him lying bleeding in the dirt. I will give you back what is yours, all I ask in return is for you to punish the lads accordingly, as they stripped the man bare of his honor. Keep your gold, but do justice to the crannogman.”

There were still no features to make out within the darkness of the helm, but still the knight’s glare seemed to pierce right through the three boys growing smaller in their Sers’ shadows. When the three knights whirled around to stare at them in turn, towering over them threateningly, Pugnose, Mole and Watery Eyes suddenly only seemed half their sizes. Assaulting and harming a man as highly ranked and important as a Lord was a terrible crime and could even be punished with death. The knights found themselves at a loss of words. 

Mole’s face was cherry-red as he stared at the Knight of the Laughing Tree, furiously.

“He’s lyin’!” he shrieked, his voice breaking, “Ser Desmond, you ‘ave to believe me, I’ve dun no such thing! I neva would!”

“I am speaking the truth, boy!” the mystery knight thundered, his deep, hollow voice filled with cold anger, “You and your friends beat Lord Reed in the backyard of the armory, called him a frog and a filthy crannogman and laughed at him for getting your titles wrong in his fear and pain. He told me all about how you struck him down and kicked him as he was lying in the mud! He later recognized you at the feast and I swore to do him justice! Do you claim you do not know of any of these things?”

“It wasn’t my idea!” Mole cried, breaking under the pressure, his face twisted in fear, “I’m not at fault, please, Ser, I told ‘em it wasn’t right, I neva wanted him no harm, I swear!”

The other two were begging at their own knights in turn, howling about how they did have wanted to take part, assuring their innocence time and time again and so, making themselves look even guiltier than before.

Finally, Ser Ramond turned to the mystery knight, his face showing nothing but disgust and bitterness, and rasped:

“I am deeply ashamed of my squire, Ser, and have to beg your pardon for his despicable deed. I will see to his punishment at once and can assure you that it will be a grave one.”

“It is not me you owe your pardon to, but Lord Reed.” The knight said, calmly. “Yet I am glad to hear that you are agreeing to my terms. You shall have your horse back, and your armor, and your weapons as well, and I shall trouble you no longer.”

After that, Ser Gerys and Ser Desmond were quick to agree to the terms as well, the latter one even punching his own squire, Pugnose, in the gut with a mailed fist, so hard all the air went out of the boy at once and he fell to the ground breathless, whimpering and crying.

“Just to give him a taste of what is to come” Ser Desmond declared, smiling grimly as he took the reins of his horse, stepping over Pugnose in the process.

As the Knight of the Laughing Tree watched them go, his face remained shrouded to the world, for no one to see, but behind the rusty visor, he smiled broadly.

 

 


End file.
